THE DYING INDIAN’S DREAM

Whose dazzling visions of the Throne, He’d never read, or heard, or known; He told the visions of his head,

While slumbering upon his bed;

And spoke of those unutterable joys Prepared on high,

Beyond the sky, For sinners saved in Jesus when they die.

VI.

With mute amaze, And earnest gaze, Seated round his cot Entranced, and to the spot Enchained, we listen to the story. Catching glimpses of the glory; As though the echoing roll From the Eternal Hill, In soft vibrations broke, Upon our senses while he spoke, Sending through every soul, A deep unutterable thrill!

“ Oh! I have been in Heaven! To me it has been given To see the Throne of Light, And Hosts of Angels bright, And Ransomed Spirits robed in White; They knew my name, And who I am, And whence I came; I heard them loud through Heaven proclaim; “ Make room! make room! John Paul has come! John Paul has come! Bear the glad tidings far As the remotest star!

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